


Evil Author Day 2021

by DizzyDrea



Category: NCIS, SEAL Team (TV), White Collar (TV 2009)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Alternate Universe - Shifters, Evil Author Day, F/M, Gen, Near Death Experiences, Romance, Snippets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:34:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29471022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DizzyDrea/pseuds/DizzyDrea
Summary: A sneak-peek at some stories I'm working on, plus one from the archive.
Relationships: Ellie Bishop/Anthony DiNozzo, Peter Burke & Neal Caffrey
Comments: 3
Kudos: 25





	1. NCIS: Love Will Guide You Home

**Author's Note:**

> These snippets are also posted at my DW account. [Click here](https://dizzydrea.dreamwidth.org/51076.html) if you'd rather read them over there.
> 
> The fandoms I'm posting this year:  
> NCIS: "Love Will Guide You Home"  
> White Collar: "The Moon Made Me Do It"  
> SEAL Team: "The Harbinger of Death"
> 
> Disclaimer: None of these fandoms belong to me. They belong to other, very talented people that it would take too long to name. Suffice to say I'm not making any money doing this. I do this for fun and for practice. Mostly for fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started working on this story after Nano last year (2020), but was rather quickly distracted by other things. I love the idea and do plan to finish it at some point, but other projects have had to take priority. Also, this is clearly another Hallmark Christmas Movie (TM) story, so while I may finish it, I wouldn't post it until December. So, enjoy what's here and I promise I'll work on it when I have time.

~o~

The plane banked as it approached the airport, so Ellie took the opportunity to get her first glimpse of Toscana.

The tiny principality sat on the Adriatic Sea, tucked between Italy and Slovenia. Rolling green hills flowed away from a turquoise blue sea, the landscape dotted by cows and little houses. Looming up ahead, on a hill overlooking the marina, stood a grand palace. 

It was beautiful and idyllic, and she was looking forward to seeing some of the sights she'd only read about. Well, whatever she could fit in, anyway. She was there to do a job, so free time might be hard to find.

She heard the flight attendant requesting that passengers fasten their seatbelts, so she locked hers into place and tucked her laptop into the seat pocket in front of her. The landscape flashed by as the plane approached the airport, and before she knew it, they were on the ground.

Passing through passport control was easy considering she'd transited through Munich on the way over from Washington. Since it was a small plane, it took only a few minutes for her luggage to appear on the carousel. She just had one small suitcase, which she easily hoisted off the carousel and tugged out to the curb.

She'd been told that someone would meet her, but she wasn't expecting the large black Mercedes SUV sitting at the curb with a rather distinctive coat of arms on the door. A gentleman with silver hair and an expensive looking black suit stood beside it, a severe look on his face making her feel like a teenager caught out after curfew.

"Ms. Bishop?" he said, startling her out of her thoughts.

"Yes, I'm Eleanor Bishop," she said.

"I'm here to pick you up and escort you to the palace," he said. "If you'll allow me?"

"Of course," she said. 

She watched as he took her small suitcase and stowed it in the back of the SUV. He opened the back door and took her hand as he helped her inside. She set about latching her seatbelt as he jogged around the vehicle and slid deftly behind the wheel.

"We'll be at the palace in about twenty minutes," he told her as he pulled away from the airport.

"Thanks," she said. "Can I ask you a question?"

"You can ask," he said.

She frowned. Seemed like taciturn was his default setting. "Are you American?"

"I am," he said. 

"So, how does an American wind up being a chauffeur in a small European principality?"

"He asked."

When the man didn't offer anything else, Ellie sighed. So much for small talk. Instead of trying to draw him out any more, she turned her attention to the scenery flowing by as they drove from the airport to the palace. 

It really was a lovely country; the roads were well-kept and the architecture was stunning. From her research she knew Toscana had been established in the Middle Ages, by Royal Grant from Charlemagne himself. The DiNozzo family had ruled in Toscana for generations, and the current prince, Antonio Dominic, was rumored to be young, handsome and charming.

Sooner than she'd expected they were pulling up in front of the palace. There was a young-ish gentleman in a light grey suit standing at the top of the drive, presumably waiting for her. Her chauffeur helped her out of the SUV and walked her over to the other man.

"Ms. Bishop, it's a pleasure to meet you," he said, holding out his hand.

She took it, smiling at him. "Is everyone around here American?"

"Not everyone," he said with a chuckle. "I'm Timothy McGee, Prince Antonio's personal assistant. If you'll follow me, I'll show you to your room. You can freshen up there before lunch."

Ellie almost stumbled on the steps. "Wait, I'm staying here?"

"Yes," Mr. McGee said. He frowned. "Weren't you told that we'd made arrangements for your stay?"

"Well, yes, but I thought that meant staying at a hotel," she said. "Not that I'm not grateful. I'm just surprised."

"The Prince is pleased with your interest in his grandmother's art collection," he said. "To facilitate your access to the collection, he suggested you might want to stay here."

"I'm… overwhelmed," she said, shaking her head. "Please let him know that I appreciate his hospitality."

"Oh, you can tell him yourself at lunch," McGee said. "You'll be dining with the Prince before he shows you the collection."

Ellie wasn't sure but she thought she might have blacked out a little. "I see."

"If you're worried at all about meeting him, don't be," he said. "The Prince doesn't bite, I promise."

"Well, that's good," she said faintly.

"Come, I'll take you to your room," he said. "I've left my number next to the phone, so if you need anything at all while you're here, just call. I'm happy to help."

~o~

An hour later, McGee was escorting her through the palace to what she presumed was a huge, stuffy dining hall for lunch. She was both looking forward to it and dreading it. How did one address a Prince who was both American by birth and royal at the same time?

All around her, there were palace employees in fine livery hanging holiday decorations, which was confusing considering it was two days after Christmas. 

"Shouldn't they be taking down the decorations by now, not adding more?" she asked as they walked down yet another hallway. At this rate, she wouldn't be able to find her room without a compass and a map.

McGee chuckled. "The Prince loves this time of year, so I don't think there's a such thing as too many decorations in his world. But, to answer your question, Christmas is just the start of the holidays in Toscana. We celebrate Christmas with our families, and then the palace hosts a large New Year's Eve Gala, all building up to Epiphany, which is the real celebration around here. It's when we exchange gifts, and most families have large gatherings with relatives and friends."

"Wow, I had no idea," Ellie said. "So, I'm basically interrupting your holiday celebration. I wish I'd known. I'd have planned my trip for after… just when is Epiphany, anyway?"

"Epiphany takes place on the twelfth night after Christmas," McGee said.

"Oh, like the Shakespeare play," she said.

"Exactly," he said. They turned another corner and headed straight for a set of double doors. McGee stopped outside and faced her with his hand on the knob. "You ready?"

"As I'll ever be," she said. "I've never met royalty before, so I'm probably going to mess this up."

"Just remember, speak when spoken to, and only touch him if he initiates it," he said. "You'll do fine. He's not as stuffy as some royalty. He grew up in the US, after all."

"Right," she said. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, tugging self-consciously on the jacket she'd thrown over her sweater. "Okay, I'm ready."

McGee nodded, turned and opened the door before she could change her mind. They entered a large salon decorated rather formally in blues and greys. It was a beautiful room, with a large fireplace dominating one wall and floor-to-ceiling windows offering a gorgeous view of the grounds of the palace. 

The art was what caught her attention. There were some familiar paintings in the room; paintings that she knew to be part of the Toscanan collection, but there were also a couple that she'd never seen before. She was itching to get her hands on her computer to research the one's she wasn't familiar with, but she fisted her hands at her side and tried to focus on the man standing near the fireplace.

"Your Highness, may I present Eleanor Bishop," McGee said as he approached the Prince. He turned around and Ellie's heart stopped. He was—not to be cliché about it—gorgeous. Very GQ in his presumably-custom-tailored charcoal suit and red silk tie, with his hair slicked back and a charming smile on his face. "Ms. Bishop, His Serene Highness, Prince Antonio di Toscana."

Ellie wasn't sure if she should curtsey, bow or just faint. Some of what she was feeling must have shown in her behavior because he smiled at her and held out his hand.

"Ms. Bishop," he said as she took his hand in a firm grip. He was gentle with her, squeezing once before he allowed her hand to drop. If it affected him as much as it did her, he didn't show it. "It's a pleasure to meet you. I've been looking forward to your visit for some time."

"I apologize for coming during the holidays," she said in a rush. "I had no idea you were in the midst of your celebrations. I'd have never presumed to come if—"

"Please," he said, holding up a hand to stop her rambling. "Our private, family celebrations took place a couple of days ago. Unfortunately, I don't get to take the whole two weeks off as my people expect me to be out in public, celebrating the New Year and Epiphany, so I don't get as much time off as I'd like."

"The perks of being the one in charge?" she asked.

The Prince chuckled. "Yes, as a matter of fact. I saw you looking at the art when you entered the room."

"Yes!" she said enthusiastically. "There are a couple of pieces I don't remember seeing on the Toscanan museum's website. I'm assuming they're private collection pieces."

"They are," the Prince said. "My many-greats-grandmother was an avid collector. These pieces are from her personal collection and not part of the National Archive. This salon was actually her favorite. I thought you'd enjoy eating here as opposed to the formal dining room. That way you can enjoy the paintings along with your lunch."

"I—thank you," she stammered. "That would be great."

"Thank you, Tim," the Prince said.

McGee bowed to his Prince, then turned and smiled at Ellie. "I'll have someone escort you back to your rooms after lunch. Enjoy."

"Thank you," she murmured. 

McGee left the room, and suddenly she was alone in a fancy salon with a Prince, and no earthly idea of what to do with herself.

"You can relax now," the Prince said, flashing a smile. "I promise I don't bite."

"I'm sorry," she said. "I've just never met a Prince before. I didn't honestly know I was going to meet you today. Or ever, really. I have no idea what to do now."

"Well, lucky for you I'm not much for formality," he said. "So, if you'd like, you can call me Tony when we're in private."

Ellie practically choked on her own spit. "I'm not sure I can do that. You're a Prince, and I'm a doctoral student at George Washington University. Totally different worlds."

"I grew up in New York. Did you know?" he asked. When she shook her head, he tilted his own in the direction of the opposite side of the room, where the two outside walls met. There was a table all set for their meal in the corner where the windows gave an expansive view of the grounds. She followed him as he led the way. "My mother's family is originally from England, but my uncle and a cousin live in New York. I went to the Ohio State University, where I majored in Sports Psychology and Kinesiology. I even played football and basketball for a while."

"I read the biographical data your office sent," she said. "I was kind of surprised that your schooling was featured so prominently. I mean, I'd have thought they'd emphasize the part where you went to the Sorbonne. That seems like a more… princely endeavor."

"And so it was," Tony said. "When my cousin died, my uncle asked me to step in as heir. I wasn't planning on becoming royalty. After my knee injury, I'd actually decided on a career in law enforcement."

"This is nowhere near that," Elli said. 

She allowed him to hold out her chair and settled her in it before he sat down. It made her uncomfortable, but the briefing document she read said that above all, she should follow his lead, no matter what.

"Tell me about it," he said with a huff. "My father's brother took over the Principality in his twenties, but he was also raised here. I honestly thought that being from the States would be a detriment, but the people of Toscana have embraced me in a way that was surprising and satisfying. I feel like I've always lived here. It's… special."

"I'm glad you're able to feel at home here," she said. "You know they call you 'The American Prince' back home, right?"

Tony rolled his eyes. "Yes, I've seen the press. Will and Kate get the same treatment in the press, and they're not even Americans. Of course, Harry and Meghan do, too. Rags to riches and all that."

"Have you met other royals?" she asked. Just then, a server came in pushing a cart. He set various dishes on the table, bowed to the Prince and made a hasty exit. 

"I have," he said. "It's so odd. I'm now on a first name basis with people I'd only read about in the papers, so to speak."

He served her some of the pasta and bread, and poured her a glass full of something sparkling. She took a sip, surprised to find that it wasn't alcoholic, just a sparkling juice of some sort. Sweet, but not too sweet.

"That's a Toscanan specialty," he said, tipping his own glass to indicate what he was talking about. "Sparkling Moscato, non-alcoholic. We usually drink it on Christmas. I thought you'd enjoy sampling some, since you missed Christmas in Toscana."

"Thank you, it's lovely," she said. 

"Well, eat up," he said, winking at her. "I plan to walk your legs off this afternoon. We'll cover the museum top to bottom, so come with your notebook and be prepared to ask questions."

"You're giving the tour?" she asked, slightly shocked. "I thought the museum curator would be showing me around."

"Well, she would be, but we're without curator at the moment."

"What happened?" she asked. "I just spoke with her a couple of weeks ago and everything seemed fine."

Tony's lips thinned. "Let's just say that we had a difference of opinion that led to her departure."

"Okay," Ellie said. She could see that he wouldn't be pushed to get more specific than that, so she dropped it, making note to ask McGee later. "Anything else I should know?"

Tony smiled. "Oh, Eleanor, how much time do you have?"

~o~

Lunch had been lovely. The food was amazing—the Prince's grandmother's favorite Pasta Alpina recipe, apparently—and they'd wandered around the room for a bit afterwards so Ellie could get a good look at the paintings in the room. 

She'd been surprised to find that they were all from the same artist: Ettore Segretti, a Toscanan artist from the Renaissance period. The painting above the fireplace had caught her interest right away, as it had apparently been painted right there in that very room, as a gift to the sister of the Prince. 

The view of the grounds from the windows was beautiful, but what made Ellie nearly choke on her own spit was the barely-visible couple making love under the tree in the distance. Tony had merely chuckled and explained that the artist and his man-greats aunt had carried on a torrid affair for many years, and this painting was his tribute to her.

It was no wonder it was hanging in the private family apartment instead of in the museum.

After lunch, she'd freshened up and grabbed her notebook—she'd been warned she wouldn't have time to type out notes—and joined the Prince downstairs for the short trip to the Museo Nazzionale di Arte.

They'd wandered through many rooms, looking at examples of everything from realism to cubism to impressionism. Her head was spinning with stories of how each painting had been acquired. Tony had turned out to be a passionate tour guide who clearly loved the art his principality had collected over the years.

"I suppose it's a way to connect me to those who came before me," he said as they wandered into the Toscanan wing of the museum, their last stop on the tour. "My grandmother was an avid art collector herself. I'd only visited Toscana a few times as a child, but I remember her talking about the paintings as we wandered through the palace."

"That must have been wonderful," Ellie said.

"It was," he said. "What drew you to art, if I may ask?"

Ellie shrugged. "I love digging for information, so art history appealed to me. There's so much we still don't know about the Masters. You can learn a lot from just looking at the paintings. Style, materials, subject, they all tell a story. And then there's the story of who owned the painting. Sometimes, the path the painting follows is more interesting than the painting itself."

Which was all true, if not the whole story. She loved art, and what it said about the human condition, but academia was wearing on her. She wasn't sure what she'd do once she achieved her PhD if not go into teaching or research, but she knew it'd have to be as far from the university as she could get.

"Interesting," the prince said. "I'd never thought of it that way." 

They paused in front of another painting by Segretti. This one was a slice of life painting, of a family at dinner. Laughter and love radiated off the canvas, drawing a smile out of Ellie. She liked how playful Segretti was, how he always added details to his paintings that spoke of people and places he cared about. She noticed a tiny figure in the corner of the painting. There was something familiar about it, so she leaned in to get a better look.

"That's—" She straightened up and looked at the prince. "Is that Massimo Topo? From the children's books?"

"It is," he said with a fond smile.

"But those books were written by an American author," she said. 

"Yes, they were," he said. "Kelly McGee is actually married to my deputy, Tim. She fell in love with this painting as a child, when she visited the museum on a school trip. She used to spin stories about that little mouse every time I saw her. Eventually, she turned those stories into a series of children's books. With my permission, of course."

"Wow," Ellie said. "I'm impressed. I had no idea that she'd grown up in Toscana, much less taken her inspiration from this painting."

"This isn't actually the only one that the mouse figures in," the prince said. "Here, let me show you."

They stopped a few more canvases where he pointed out the mouse in the background of each one, making Ellie smile each time. Clearly, the prince was as delighted by it as she was. 

"This is all so amazing," she said as they returned to the foyer of the museum. "Thank you for showing me around, though you didn't have to close the museum just for me."

"They're normally closed on Monday, so it was no trouble," he said with a wink. "Though they do close it whenever I want to visit, because it gets crazy in here if they don't."

"Learned that one the hard way, huh?" she asked.

"Oh, yeah," he said.

"Does the museum have plans to acquire more pieces?" she asked as they headed for the door,

The Prince stopped in his tracks. He looked at her, a curious tilt to his head. "Would you like to see something completely off the normal tour?"

"Yes?" she said, though it sounded more like a question than she was comfortable with. Anything to spend more time with him, though she wasn't going to mention that out loud for anything.

~o~


	2. The Moon Made Me Do It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What is it about Neal Caffrey that makes me want to turn him into something other than human? /shrugs/ I wrote the first part of this for a prompt on a friend's LJ a bunch of years ago. I like it so much that I decided to expand it and then... never went back to it. I'm not sure if I'll ever finish it, but it's fun to revisit the idea anyway.

~o~

Neal Caffrey stretched as he lay on the smooth pavers of the terrace, enjoying the languid freedom of his altered form on this warm summer night. He still had a few hours before dawn began to paint the sky in pinks and purples, but he'd never been one to wait until the last minute. 

With one last longing look at the moon, he stood up and stepped into his anklet as he allowed the change to overtake him. 

Fully back in human form now, he stood and stretched, feeling the familiar pull of muscle and bone as he tried to shake off the melancholy of his lost freedom. There'd been a time when he'd been able to change anytime he wanted, to run for miles and chase the other night-dwelling creatures to his heart's content. Now, he was restricted to the terrace of June's house, unable to run free except in his heart.

A heavy sigh escaped his lips even as he shook off those thoughts and turned to go back inside. He really needed a few hours' sleep before he had to be at work. But the minute he turned, he froze.

Standing there, hands on hips and an unreadable expression on his face, was Peter Burke.

"I can explain, Peter," he said, taking a step forward.

Peter frowned. "That you're a werewolf?"

"No." When Peter's frown turned into a scowl, he huffed out a laugh. "No, I'm not a werewolf. Werewolves don't exist."

"And yet I saw a furry creature that looked an awful lot like a wolf turn into you," Peter said. "Are you going to tell me I was seeing things?"

"You weren't seeing things, but I wasn't kidding when I said there's no such thing as werewolves," Neal said. "And I promise I'll tell you everything, just… can I put some pants on?"

Peter sighed impatiently, but Neal didn't miss the flick of his eyes over his naked form. Neal just chuckled and shook his head as he passed. He grabbed the pair of sweats off the kitchen chair where he'd tossed them and pulled them on, followed by his ratty old t-shirt. When he turned around, Peter was still standing near the terrace doors, still with his hands on his hips, though the frown had turned into a contemplative look.

"So, let me guess," Peter said, "the moon made you do it."  
  
~o~

"In a manner of speaking, I suppose so."

Peter scowled. That… didn't actually clarify a damned thing. Still, he knew what he'd seen, and he wasn't going to just let Neal shrug it off like he'd probably want to. He sensed it was too important, too significant to just let it go.

"I think you have some explaining to do?" It wasn't a question, but Peter couched it that way, as if asking instead of telling would get Neal to give up the truth any faster.

Neal just shrugged and wandered over to the kitchenette, pulling a beer—imported, because for all that they'd learned about each other over the months and years, Neal still refused to serve him 'crappy beer'—out of the fridge. He hooked a wine glass between his fingers and scooped up the half-empty bottle on the counter as he went. Peter took a seat at the table, the beer plunking down in front of him followed by the clatter of a bottle opener. Neal settled in across from him, uncorking the bottle and pouring a generous amount of blood-red wine into his glass.

He tossed the cork aside and took a sip of the wine before leveling his gaze at Peter. "You have questions. Ask."

Peter opened his mouth, but nothing came out. It wasn't a matter of being unable to think of a question so much as not knowing what to ask first. Why hadn't he told Peter he was a werewolf? Were there packs of them in Manhattan? Who else knew about this? June? Mozzie? 

Shaking his head, he opened his mouth, but the question he asked took even him by surprise. "So, who bit you?"

"No one bit me, Peter," Neal said, his expression souring. "God, does everyone believe those terrible movies are real?"

"Up until ten minutes ago, I'd have said they were complete fiction," Peter said. He took a long pull from his bottle. "Obviously, I was wrong." But before he could open his mouth to ask another—quite likely inane—question, Neal held up a hand.

"There's no such thing as a werewolf," he said. "Contrary to popular myth, you won't suddenly become a shifter if I bite you. It's genetic, passed along in families."

"Who—"

"My father."

Peter let that digest for a moment. "Did your mother know?"

"Yeah, she knew," Neal said. He gusted out a sigh, then raised his glass and took a long sip. "He didn't tell her until after I was born. Guess he figured it'd be hard to explain why I suddenly turned into a wolf when I hit puberty. Mom was not pleased."

"She didn't kick you out, did she?"

Neal shook his head. "No. But after everything my father did—and believe me, that's a story you really don't want to hear—she kicked him out. Then we left, ran away. I hadn't seen Manhattan until the day I came back as an adult."

"So, you're not a werewolf, but you can change into one," Peter said. Neal glared at him, but he ignored it. "So far, you're not telling me anything. Like why the hell you don't just run. Obviously you can slip the anklet anytime you want to. Why not just do it?"

"Believe it or not, I like it here," Neal said. He sipped at his wine, before going on in a more subdued tone. "New York is where I was born. It's home in a way no other place has ever been. That's why I came back, and it's why I stay. The price might be high, but I can live with it."

Peter looked at Neal, really looked at him, maybe for the first time. He'd always believed that Neal had something like honor. He'd always said he wouldn't lie to Peter, and that he wouldn't run, but Peter was only now understanding the weight of those promises.

"I'm going to go out on a limb and say Mozzie doesn't know that you're—"

"Not. A. Werewolf."

"Right," Peter said, pursing his lips. "What, exactly, do you call it, then? That thing you do?"

"I'm a shifter, Peter," Neal said. "A Dire Wolf, to be specific. And no, Mozzie doesn't know. I imagine I'd be a pelt on his wall by now if he did. Either that or he'd be convinced I was part of some government experiment designed to take over the world."

Peter huffed a laugh. That sounded about right. It seemed impossible that no one—besides himself, that was—knew about this. Then he saw it.

"June knows."

Neal's eyes widened just a fraction, but he knew he'd hit paydirt.

"She's not a—what did you call it?—A dire wolf, is she?" Peter asked.

"No," Neal said, shaking his head. "She's not. Byron was, though."

"And she saw it in you, that day you met," Peter said. "Is that what makes you so good at what you do? What made Byron the legend he was?"

"If by that you mean that I used my enhanced senses when I pulled a job, I plead the Fifth," Neal said. When Peter frowned, Neal just smiled. "Come on, Peter. A guy's gotta have some secrets."

"Do you use them on me?"

Neal just smiled wider, sipping at his wine as he let the silence lengthen. Not that Peter would know just what 'enhanced senses' meant, but he could guess. Better eyesight, hearing, speed and strength. It made so much of what Neal was able to do make sense. And he'd willingly stayed on the anklet, helping Peter put criminals away.

"Fine," Peter said, leaning back in his chair. He could feel a smile tugging at the corners of his lips, despite a sneaking suspicion that he'd been the victim of Neal's wolf-enhanced abilities more than once. If it helped them put someone away, he wasn't going to complain.

"Are you going to tell Elizabeth?"

That question felt like it came out of left field, but maybe not. Neal had kept this secret for a reason. If it hadn't been for Peter's untimely arrival, he might never have known. And yes, Peter didn't like to keep secrets from his wife, but for Neal he could bend that rule.

"I'm not going to say anything, but maybe you should," he said. "We could take you to the park with Satchmo, let you run. It'd beat hanging out on the terrace for the full moon."

"I am not a dog, Peter," Neal said, frowning. "I don't heel, I don't walk on a leash, and I most certainly do not go to the dog park."

Neal's outrage had turned his face a lovely shade of red, and Peter couldn't help but chuckle. "Come on, it'd be fun. And Satchmo's never had a playdate before."

Neal opened his mouth, probably to yell something vaguely insulting, when he stopped and really looked at Peter. Suddenly, the outrage drained out of him and he chuckled. "Good one, Peter."

"I'm serious about telling El, Neal," Peter said. "She won't judge, you know that."

"I'll think about it."

Peter knew that was about as good as he was going to get, so he didn't push. He knew it had to be Neal's decision, how much to reveal and to whom. All he could do was give Neal a safe place to be and someone to trust. In that respect, the night's revelations hadn't really changed anything, and that thought more than anything else had him relaxing.

Neal might be a wolf, but he was still the same man he'd been yesterday. For better or worse.


	3. The Harbinger of Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I only started this one about a week ago, and it'll likely be finished and posted online before the metaphorical ink on this post is dry, but since I have no idea how long it'll take me to finish, I thought I'd give you a sneak-peek. I like the idea of Jason being something of an angel of death, delivering justice to those who really need it. No idea how long the finished story will be, but if I had to guess I'd say 5k words at least. Given my propensity for being wordy, I'd take the over if I were you.
> 
> Also, I've cast Colin Firth as Death in this, because it amuses me.

~o~

It happens on a Tuesday.

Not that that information is relevant at all, but this is what sticks with him years later when he thinks back on it.

The shot to his vest takes him by surprise. They'd cleared the building methodically, moving as one through the darkest corners, floor by floor, looking for the terrorist cell their intel told them was using it for a base. 

At the crack of the shot, all hell breaks loose. There's shouting and shooting, and when the quiet descends once more, two things are true: all the terrorists are dead and Jason Hayes has been shot. There was a sniper they hadn't accounted for, and the high-powered bullet from his gun had sliced through Jason's vest like a hot knife through butter.

He lays there on the floor, gasping for breath as his vision greys out at the edges. He hears voices calling his name, but they sound far away, abstract and indecipherable from the background noise.

He closes his eyes, laying his head back on the floor. He's not giving up, just resting, he tells himself. Between one breath and the next, the world goes eerily silent. When he opens his eyes, there's bright white light making everything shine and glitter. He's lying in a field of grass, staring up at a bright blue sky with no idea how he got there.

He sits up, and as he does, he realizes that his vest and gun are missing. So are his boots, oddly. He flexes his toes in the grass, reveling in the peace and quiet of this strange place.

Which is when it hits him: he's fine. He's more than fine. He rubs a hand over his chest, staring at it in consternation when it's not bloody like he thinks it should be. 

He was shot. Wasn't he?

He gets to his feet and turns in a circle, eyes on the horizon. All he can see is a vast field of grass waving in a gentle breeze. The sky overhead is a bright blue shot through with scudding clouds. They seem to be moving faster than is normal for clouds, he's no cloud expert so what does he know.

"Won't you sit down?"

Jason spins around to find a man dressed in a fine suit standing beside a wing-back chair, a glass of red wine in his hand and an expression on his face that says he totally gets what Jason's going through and is amused by it.

"Who are you?" Jason asks. "What have you done to me? You need to take me back to my unit, because this isn't going to end well for you if you don't."

"Ever the soldier," the man replies in cultured British tones. "Please, sit down. Would you like something to drink?"

Jason shakes his head automatically. "I'm not gonna cooperate until you tell me why you kidnapped me."

"You have not been kidnapped, Mr. Hayes," he says. "You are here at my invitation. I have a unique opportunity for you if you're amenable to discussing it."

"And if I talk to you about this opportunity, you'll let me go?" Jason asks.

"Yes, I will."

Jason weighs his options. Clearly, he's in the middle of nowhere and he has no idea which direction to go to get help, or even if he's in friendly or enemy territory. He loses nothing by talking to this guy, but for just a moment he wonders if he could overpower him and escape. The guy doesn't look like much, so he'd be no problem.

"If you're thinking about trying to escape, please don't," the man says. He takes a sip of his wine, then turns an eyebrow on Jason when he gapes at the guy. "I know you better than you might think. Right this moment, you're thinking you could take me down and escape. Perhaps you could, but where would you go? This whole place is within my realm. No one comes or goes without my say=so."

As if to drive his point home, he waves a negligent hand and they go from a field of grass waving in the breeze to the surface of Mars, complete with a pink sky and miles of dusty red dirt in every direction. He feels an odd urge to hold his breath, even though he's pretty sure that none of this is real.

Jason gapes at the man. "What the actual fuck, man?"

The older man chuckles. "You appeared to require something a bit more dramatic to convince you of my sincerity."

"Right," Jason says. He flops down into the wing chair across from his host. 

"There now, that wasn't so hard," he says. "Have a drink and we'll chat."

"Chat?" Jason asks. That seems like an entirely out-of-character word for the man to use, but he's not going to call him on it. Instead, he picks up the beer that seems to have appeared at his elbow. Kudos to his host for knowing his audience, anyway.

"Now that we've settled that," he says. Another wave of his hand and they're right back in the field of grass they'd started out in.

"Any particular reason you like this field?" Jason asks.

"It's aesthetically pleasing," the man says. "And you won't have to feel like you need to hold your breath while we talk."

Jason snorts but doesn't otherwise comment.


End file.
